No More Running
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: When Dean tells him that he's a wizard, Piers does the only thing he knows to do: he runs.


_Health and Fitness, task 1: Write about someone running away from something._

 _Word Count: 1417_

* * *

Piers stares at Dean, trying to comprehend what he's heard and seen. He _knows_ that Dean has said he's a wizard, and there's no other explanation as to how he could make the clock on the wall come to him with a wave of the stick–wand, bloody hell Dean has a _wand–_ and a weird word.

He's a wizard. As hard as it is to believe, there's no way to deny it. All the years he's spent with Dean–first as his neighbor, then as his boyfriend–only to find out about it now.

"Impossible," Piers whispers.

But he knows it's really not. As strange and improbable as it all sounds, he remembers Harry Potter. Dudley's cousin had been a strange boy, and he'd managed to do all sorts of unexplainable things.

"Piers?" Dean steps closer, holding his hand out.

Piers steps back, nearly tripping over his own feet in his hurry to get away from his boyfriend. The hurt the flickers over Dean's handsome face is enough to twist Piers' stomach into knots. He doesn't apologize, though.

"Piers," Dean says again, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm still me. Nothing has changed."

How can he say that? With one simple sentence, everything has been flipped upside down.

"I need…" Piers doesn't know what he needs. All he can do is turn on his heel and rush off, not even bothering to grab his jacket as he disappears into the snowy night.

…

He's a bloody coward, and he knows it, but he can't turn back now.

There will always be a part of Piers that's half in, half out, always looking for the nearest exit. No one had ever wanted him–not his parents, the kids at school–for so long that he still can't wrap his mind around the fact that maybe that's changed. He has friends, family, and a loving boyfriend, but he just _knows_ it's bound to end, and he's going to be left all alone.

Running is easy. By now, Piers has made it into an art. Running keeps him safe; it means no one can get close enough to leave him.

He tucks a cigarette between his lips, ducking his head against the freezing wind and carefully cupping his left hand as he lights the cigarette. The smoke, coupled with the December air, stings his lungs, but he doesn't care. Piers takes another drag, shivering violently.

If he had any sense, he'd go home. Dean will be worried.

But he doesn't. He can't. All he knows how to do is run, and he can't give that up now.

…

"You're lucky you didn't freeze," Dudley says, clearly annoyed as he pushes Piers in front of the heater. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Piers doesn't speak. He can't bring himself to try to explain. All he can do is stand there, letting the warmth radiate from the heater and slowly chase the chill from his skin.

Piers rubs his hands over his thin arms, shivering as he tries to make the goosebumps go away. Dudley notices and takes off his jacket, draping it around Piers' shoulders. It's a few sizes too big, but it is warm, and Piers lets the soft material swallow him.

"I need a drink," Piers mutters, still not ready to talk about what's happened, not ready to admit that he's running from the only man who has ever felt like home.

Dudley folds his arms over his chest, brows raising. "You walk through the snow with no coat just to have a drink with me?" he asks, shaking his head. "I'm not buying it."

"It's a long story."

Dudley relaxes slightly, bright eyes widening ever so slightly. "Start talking, then."

Piers takes a deep breath. He reaches up, pushing his fingers through his dark hair and ruffling the messy, snow-damp strands. Words seem to fail, and all he can do is drop his gaze sheepishly to the floor.

"Dean says he's a wizard."

When he looks up at Dudley again, Piers expects to see him doubled over, fighting laughter. Instead, there's undeniable understanding in his blue eyes. "Right," Dudley says, nodding. "I think a drink is a good idea."

…

It's easier to explain than Piers had thought it would be. Somehow, the words fall from his lips, and Dudley nods along, like Piers isn't talking about something completely farfetched.

Piers pours himself another glass of Scotch. Running isn't his only coping mechanism; he knows how to let the sweet burn of alcohol numb him and drown the chaos inside his head.

"What are you going to do?" Dudley asks, swirling the amber liquid around his glass before sipping it.

Piers shakes his head, plucking a cigarette from his pocket. He lights it, letting the smoke blacken his lungs. "Remember when we were kids?" he asks.

Dudley stares at him for a moment, seemingly unsure how to respond. He holds his hand out, and Piers hands him a cigarette and the lighter. "Which part?" Dudley asks, fitting his lips around the filter and setting the tobacco ablaze. He exhales, sending a cloud of white-grey smoke from his mouth.

"The part where our first instinct when faced with something different was to beat it until it was what we wanted it to be," Piers answers.

Silence hangs between them. Piers leans back in the battered chair, stretching his long legs out and bouncing them restless. Dudley slides his glass across the table, passing it from hand to hand as his cigarette dangles lazily from his lips.

"We're better than that now." Dudley leaves the glass alone at last, removing the cigarette and ashing it. "We grew up."

"Have we really?"

Maybe Piers knows that they have. Isn't the fact that he has a boyfriend, and Dudley has remained supportive enough proof? But he can't bring himself to believe. In the back of his mind, there will always be that doubt.

Dudley snorts, eyes rolling. He lifts his drink, downing it quickly. "Is that what happened?" he asks. "You're so scared you're still a monster that you ran away?"

Piers winces. He wishes he could deny it, but it's true. Becoming a bully had been too easy. Is it really possible that he's been reformed, that there isn't something wicked lurking beneath his surface?

Why else would his parents hate him the way they had? Surely they must have seen something rotten in him to make them want to steer clear of him. The teachers, his classmates… They must have seen it too.

And so he runs away. He runs before anyone can leave him, but he also runs before they can see just how twisted and broken he is.

"You aren't a monster," Dudley says. "I've seen monsters. I've…"

He shudders and trails off. There are some things Dudley doesn't talk about. Piers has learned not to press.

"Dean loves you. Are you really going to give up a chance at happiness just because you're scared?"

Piers feels the guilt tying his stomach into knots. He stares at his hands, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

"What if I hurt him?" Piers asks.

 _What if I break him until he has no choice but to leave me?_ But Piers doesn't dare ask that.

"Go home." Dudley crushes his cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray. "Dean is waiting for you."

Piers shakes his head. "I can't…"

"You can. You're just scared."

Piers closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He wishes he could he braver. He wishes the guilt would let him go.

"Keep the jacket," Dudley adds. "You can get back to me later."

…

Piers stands outside the tiny house he shares with Dean. The wind blows, bathing him in snowflakes and chilling him to the bone. Still, he doesn't go in.

He can see Dean through the window, wearing his usual West Ham shirt and pacing the length of the kitchen. It makes his heart ache.

Dean is different, but so is Piers. Why should it matter that Dean's differences are slightly more unusual than Piers'? At the end of the day, all that should matter is that they love one another, and love should be enough.

He takes a deep, trembling breath. It's terrifying to know he loves someone this much, and every fiber within his body screams for him to run.

Maybe it's time to stop running away.

Piers pulls his key from his pocket and puts on a brave face. It's time to go home.


End file.
